“I want you to know that when I get going I sometimes use a lot curse words. And I’m wondering if your being a woman will make a difference in that regard.”

“Zeke, I’d prefer if you try to keep it clean. But since I was in the Navy for twenty years there’s probably not much I haven’t heard. But still, imagine you are talking to your mother or your sister and you don’t want to offend them. Maybe we can keep it at that level. Okay?”

“Got it, Doc.”

“Now, I’d like to take you back to that first day before the incident. Did anything unusual happen before or during work that led up the confrontation with your co-worker?”

“Well, yes. I’d have to say so.”

“What was that?”

“About an hour after I got to work, my supervisor started picking on me in my co-worker’s presence.”

“Would you care to be more specific, Zeke?”

“He began demanding to know exactly how much progress I had made on a report I was writing. He wanted to know the percentage of completion and the exact time I’d be done. He also wanted to know what else I was working on, which was idiotic since he knew I had no other assigned tasks.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Do you find the question objectionable?”

“It’s a cliché non-directional therapists use, right?”

“Perhaps the question will reach into your thoughts and lead to the next phase of inquiry.”

“Okay, what he said made me feel I was under attack.”

“Did your supervisor say anything else at that point that upset you?”

“Yeah. He said, ‘I don’t know what planet you live on, buddy, but your attitude is unacceptable in this department.’ He also told me he disliked me.”

“How did you respond?”

“I reminded him that when he started with the company I’d provided him information about the corporate culture and the products and services we provide.”

“What was his response?”

“He admitted that was true but asserted I’d been an asshole about it.”

Mr. Jones wanted the class to discuss why Lenny and George stuck together, but the kids gave him crap about the guys being queer. Nancy enjoyed reading, especially Of Mice and Men. Jones never saw her again and had little to tell the cops.

The following day Nancy played hookey from work–study, stole thirty dollars from her mom’s tip-money coffee can, and hotwired their neighbor’s Ford F-Series truck.

Shit, eighth of a tank, she thought.

Outside town she filled it and ate at the drive-through. Four hours later with the needle on empty the truck lurched and stopped. She thumbed a ride with a lady who drove her to a diner. Nancy drank bitter coffee and after trip to the ladies stood on the highway, thumb out. A faded blue Biscayne stopped up the shoulder. Hoping he wouldn’t be creepy, Nancy appraised him through the passenger window. Maybe forty with a Fu Manchu, he wore a broken straw hat and ripped denim jacket. She climbed in, hiding her open buck knife by her right thigh. Fu Manchu reached over and took the blade away.

“I’m going to Denton,” Nancy said

No reply.

After an hour, he tossed her knife back, saying he had to turn off outside Denton. The big man ordered her out.

Flying down the state highway in Rusty’s Econoline, Denton’s six-man high school football team hooted when they spotted the girl waving her arms. Rusty jumped onto the blacktop. Nancy panicked when she saw the other heads in the dome light. She cut Rusty through the sleeve of his letter jacket, dropping the knife, punched him several times, and raked her nails across his face. Rusty cold-cocked her, dragging her across the shoulder and into the ditch. None of the guys ever talked about it after that night.

The following evening an older couple found her—empty pockets, no purse. The medical examiner, Denton’s only doc, put the girl’s age at 20; poor dental care, one eye swollen shut. She’d lain on a buck knife with two sets of prints and on it. Full rigor had set in.

“Cause of death?”

“Exposure, probably.”

“Sexual abuse?”

“Inconclusive. She put up a fight, anyway.”

The sheriff and doc had their noses out of joint. State cops on the way—jurisdictional crap.

“Okay,” the trooper said, “state ME finished his preliminary report; both sets of prints from the knife are in the system. Girl’s got skin under her nails. Justin Shipley’s a bad boy; five years in Chino. We’ll reel him in.”

She led me into the living room. I stopped and stared at the window in front of me with the bright blue shade, drawn all the way down.

"That's the portal to another world, a parallel dimension. I want you to help me write about it in a way that will make sense to people."

Something drew me forward. I crossed the room, with her yelling, "No, no, don't touch it!", pulled on the tassel, and the shade shot up, flappity-flap-flap, revealing a blinding light--and something beyond. Away out there beyond.

* * * * *

I awoke, ten days later (I was told), and blind as a bat. Just as I have been ever since. She was there, whispering in my ear. "I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have looked. You never look directly at it."

She took my hand, held it for a long time. "Your medical bills will be paid, and you will receive a monthly allowance for life. It's the least I can do. I must go now, see if I can find someone to help me explain it to the world. Again, I am so very sorry."

That was ten years ago, and I've never heard from her again. The house with the blue shade is deserted; totally empty. I've checked. And apparently she never found anyone to explain what's on the other side of the portal.

Gary had a way with the ladies despite his defects—he wasn’t handsome, bright, or employed. He also chain-smoked cigars, was chronically stoned, and overused fatuous slang. But women liked him despite his imperfections. Presumably, he possessed other characteristics irresistible to the fair sex.

Gary fancied himself an artist. He spent hours working in an abstract sculpture medium—he melted “found” metals together using a blowtorch. Few understood the theory behind his art and fewer still saw his finished product.

Gary’s wife, Beth, had a master’s in international relations. Many of her acquaintances declared they couldn’t imagine “why Beth ever married that guy.” Beth, too, had some unusual ideas—especially regarding sex and morality. She’d read a book entitled The Harrad Experiment, set at a fictitious college where students experimented with one another to explore and expand their sexuality.

Beth decided to adopt and apply the book’s tenets in her own life. She began this sexual exploration by pursuing liaisons with Gary’s married friends. One of Gary’s pals, a guy named Braithwaite, profited from the arrangement sexually, even though he didn’t approve of Beth’s adventures. He too was married and certainly wouldn’t approve of his own wife, Joyce, carrying on in this manner.

After Gary learned Beth was not living a monogamous existence, he decided to settle some scores. As mentioned, he had a way with the ladies. Also, his chronic unemployment afforded him ample opportunities to visit his friends’ wives while their husbands worked. Gary pursued the conquests one at a time, seducing the wife of each friend with whom his wife had dallied.

Gary made out pretty well in his affair with Braithwaite’s wife, Joyce—she was a fun-loving, fine-looking lady. People were surprised she fell for Gary. Word was she wasn’t getting at home what Gary was supplying. Additionally, as with most marriages, she and Braithwaite had their bones of contention.

Literally, though, Joyce was getting it at home from Gary. They were able to conduct their love affair in the bedroom at Braithwaite’s house since he worked at a job with predictable shifts.

If more than one person knows something it’s no longer a secret and Braithwaite eventually learned his wife had strayed but said nothing about it.

During a weekend when he was supposed to be squirrel hunting, Braithwaite instead wrote “Joyce” on one small slip of paper and “Gary” on another. He taped the slips around two separate .38 caliber slugs. Braithwaite then crept in his back door and into the dining room while Gary and Joyce slept in the bedroom. He placed the bullets, labeled “Gary” and “Joyce,” in a conspicuous place on the dining room table and left the way he came.

This demonstration had the desired impact because Gary and Joyce ended their dalliance after discovering the labeled slugs. This did nothing, however, for Braithwaite's marriage since he and Joyce separated and divorced soon after that episode.

When I was a child I tied a towel around my neck for a cape and became Super Hero. I daydreamed I was an intrepid adventurer, climbing enchanted mountains filled with all sorts of monsters--and I chopped off all their heads with my Silver Laser Sword. But then I grew older, took a job in a bank and became a teller (hectic and abusive), was promoted to Vice-President (boring), and finally became President of the Bank (even more boring and tedious). THEN: I retired and became a writer. Now my life is as full of excitement and adventure (I conjure up both each time I write!) as it was when I was a child. Even more so. Now that all those "grown up, 9-to-5-job" days are behind me, I am once again Super Hero, once again intrepid adventurer, climbing mountains and slaying monsters to my heart's content . . . !

I strolled along a walking path through the park after Easter Sunday church service. Children were playing on the new grass, and the heady scents of Spring were in the air. What a wonderful day for an Easter Sunday! I thought, pausing to watch, to take it all in. Then, mysteriously, for the sky had been absolutely clear, a dark cloud rolled across the heavens, darkening the park. For a few moments the laughter of the children vanished, replaced by a strange, almost dreadful silence. Then, just as mysteriously, the cloud dissolved in a dazzling display of sunlight, and the day again was filled with magic and enchantment. The children resumed their laughter, while they, myself, and everyone else outdoor that day looked skyward to see-- What was it we saw? I can't say for certain, but can only hope. A beautiful ball of light appeared in the west and soared overhead in a golden display of silent movement. And was it my imagination (no one else seemed to hear!), or was it real, those deep, vibrant words I heard (or imagined): "This is my Beloved Son, in Whom I am well pleased."

Eric Toleman had always had a feeling of fear. But fear of what? He could never pin it down, or put a name to it. When he met and married Pam, the fear receded. It was still there, but greatly diminished. Pam had that effect on his life. Then he finished work early one evening, rode the elevator to their 40th floor apartment--and found Pam in bed with another man. Enraged, he leapt onto the bed and began choking the intruder. Someone--it must have been Pam--struck him on the back of his head with a hard, blunt object. He fell forward, crashing through the bedroom window. As he plummeted toward the street, Eric suddenly knew what he had always been afraid of: falling to his doom from a great height.

Frustrated, Tani switched off the computer and sat staring into the depths of the blank monitor screen. All this is so new. I can seem to do nothing right. I think they will fire me because I am too slow. But I am just learning. This is not fair. They say I have no "green card" and that I have no say about anything. I am like a slave to them. What will become of me? She worked in a small, dingy office on the docks. As she raised her eyes to the grimy window overlooking the harbor an ancient-looking ship moved slowly past, headed toward open waters. Hope bloomed momentarily in Tani's chest. Maybe they will send me home. There is not much there in my small village--but it is much better than I have here! But then her boss came to the door, glared at her and pointed to the computer keyboard and growled, "Get back to work!" No, she thought, booting the computer. I think they will not send me home. I will not be that lucky. As the monitor screen flickered to life Tani looked again out the window. The old cargo ship was now but a mere speck on the horizon, well out into open waters--and, unlike her, free from the oppressive land.

The Cold War had been over for years, but there were plenty other bad things going on in the world. Fanatic terrorists could strike any time--and there didn't seem to be any way of stopping them. Nations in the Middle East and Asia were trying to develop nuclear weapons. The world was getting to be a super-tense place again--just like when he was a kid back in the 60's. But he wasn't sweating that so much. No, sir. The fallout shelter his dad built in the cellar some fifty years before was still there. He went down one day, knocked open the rusty old padlock, cleaned out the place and made it livable again, then restocked it. And, more and more often, he found himself going "down cellar" and locking himself in the shelter then sitting for hours toying with the shortwave radio, listening to static and sound from far-away places. The news grew grimmer and grimmer, and he knew he might well have to go into the shelter and lock himself in "for the duration" or until the world went up in exploding flames. He stocked the shelter with lots and lots of books--after all, there might come a time, and not before too long at that, when the radio, the television, and even the ubiquitous Internet all went kaput!--and books would be his only companions. He picked up the first book from the stack nearest his reclining chair; War and Peace, a nice long bulky novel. Locked securely in his fallout shelter in the depths of the cellar, he began to read. He felt quite comfortable with his book. The silence was wonderful. A pleasant thought drifted through his mind: I might just remain down cellar for the rest of my life!

Thomas hurried up the steps of the Jayroe Building on his way to a promising job interview--the first hopeful prospect he'd had in six months. His savings were almost gone; his unemployment benefits exhausted; his rent payment overdue. He was about two steps from being a homeless person. He saw a glove lying on the steps, started to rush past it, then, for some unknown reason, stopped and stooped down to pick it up. But the glove wouldn't budge. He tugged and tugged; it was as though someone had fixed the thing to the step with one of those super-glues. The glove was made of soft leather; it stretched but did not tear. Neither did it rip loose from the step. Thomas tugged harder and harder, to no avail. People stopped to gather round him and stare. He seemed not to notice. He was suddenly obsessed with trying to free the glove. That was the only thought in his mind, and it drove him on to greater exertions. After a while the people went away and left him alone. He was now perspiring heavily, still tugging at the glove. Finally he paused long enough to glance at his watch. It was 5:45 p.m.--already three hours too late for his interview. He had probably blown his last chance at a decent job. Somehow that didn't seem to mater. He returned to tugging at the stubborn glove. The only thing that did matter, now, was getting the damned thing loose . . . !

Oh, yes. I saw you last Tuesday night. We all knew he would be alone in the cabin. But it had to be you who came and smashed his head with the large rock. It was only a matter of time. Everyone hated him. Only why did it have to be you? Well, it was, and that's that. I was there myself to do it, but you--you beat me to it, spoiled my pleasure of braining him myself. No one hated him more than I and no one deserved the right to kill him more than I. You took away that right, and that I cannot forgive. So I shall watch and wait, then chose my moment well. You must pay for what you did. You won't even see me coming.

He was getting wrecked even though it wasn’t yet noon. The first fifth emptied quickly as the five of them passed the bottle. In between pulls on the Southern Comfort the ever-shortening joint followed. Joe’s head began spinning from the booze and rising from the weed. This was a typical enough Saturday morning as the window van’s engine droned on. His eyes watered as the trees flew by. They hadn’t passed a house or even a planted field for some time. Riding shotgun Jamie broke out another bottle, swallowed deeply, passed it to Bill, the driver, and began rolling a new joint. Joe was still playing with the dead roach before putting it out.

Molly sat beside him. She’d been quiet all morning—starring out the window—and he could tell something was wrong but he couldn’t be sure what. After a long series of girlfriends, women remained an enigma to him. He understood a few things about them and could predict how they’d react in some situations or when certain types of things were said, but still he didn’t get them.

Okay, Molly was quiet this morning—what did that mean? She’d fallen for someone else and was done with him? He’d said or done something stupid or offensive and she wouldn’t forgive him until he apologized? But what for? He didn’t know. He didn’t have a clue even though he and Molly had been together awhile—five weeks—which was a long time in this group.

Anyway, the new bottle arrived, he took a swig, and handed it to Molly. Then he grabbed the new joint, toked it, and passed that on as well. She took the bottle and joint from him without looking him in the face. Earlier, before they got in the van, he saw her talking to Jim in low tones. Jim sat behind her now but those two hadn’t spoken since the group left the house. Maybe that was it. It was over between Molly and him and she wanted to move on to Jim. Then why was she sitting next to Joe now? Was it because she hadn’t told him she was dumping him yet? Joe knew plenty of women who would have just moved on to the next guy without saying anything. Should he ask her what the score was?

“Hey, Molly, pretty good dope, huh? You’ve been quiet. Are you okay?” “Mmm. Yeah, it is good.” She said this without conviction. “But is something wrong?” “I don’t want to get into it right now—too many people around.”

No, he didn’t get women. He’d have to wait to find out where he stood with her and why. Who knew when that might be. Maybe he’d imagined the thing with Jim, and Molly was quiet because she was really stoned or had a problem about something else entirely. Yeah, maybe that was it.

Roger stepped out the front door and gazed up at the sky. The bright sunlight caused him to squint his eyes almost closed.

"Come along, boy," his father called, holding up the rectangular chip that was shiny black as obsidian and had a bone-white number--37--stamped on one side. There were tears of grief and remorse in his father's voice, and in his eyes as well.

The other farmers and their sons, all thin near to emaciation from hunger, came forward and greeted Roger for what everyone knew to be the last time.

Then they escorted him in silence out to the edge of the field where a low cross had been erected. He turned around, backed up, held out his arms while some of the others stepped forward to secure his wrists to the cross-beam.

They had held the drawing the night before, and he picked the chip with the number 37 and became the sacrificial one. This was the third year in a row that the rains had failed to appear, and everyone in the valley was starving. Their store of food was all but gone; all the silos were now but empty dust catchers.

So someone had to be chosen, and Roger was that one. This had been their way for more than two centuries. Strange, unknown, horrible god-creatures dwelled in the heavens, and sometimes had to be appeased with a human blood sacrifice before they allowed the rains to come.

His friends and neighbors mumbled their farewells; his father hugged Roger close for a long while, then he too went away.

All day long Roger stood waiting in the scorching heat, with the harsh sun baking him relentlessly from a cloudless sky. He felt his body turn sticky with perspiration, and knew the scent of this would surely bring the things up there to him. At first he had been afraid, which was all too natural; but as the day wore on, his torment drove away the fear, and he found himself praying that they would hurry and come and put him out of his misery.

Then, as twilight began to darken the barren fields, Roger heard the sound of distant thunder. Black clouds rolled in, hastening the darkness. And, looking up toward the western sky, he was certain he could see the awful shapes forming in the roiling clouds.

Soon, he knew, the dark gods of the air would settle upon and devour him. Then the rains would begin, and soon the fields would flourish, and his people would no longer be hungry.

LongerStories

Longer Friday Flash Fiction Stories

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